Major Pratt.

This was Friday. On the previous Wednesday evening a note had been
brought to Mr. Hamlyn by Major Pratt's servant, a sentence in which, as
the reader may remember, ran as follows:

"_I suppose there was no mistake in the report that that ship did
go down--and that none of the passengers were saved from it?_"

This puzzled Philip Hamlyn: perhaps somewhat troubled him in a hazy kind
of way. For he could only suppose that the ship alluded to must be the
sailing vessel in which his first wife, false and faithless, and his
little son of a twelvemonth old had been lost some five or six years
ago--the _Clipper of the Seas_. And the next day, (Thursday) he had gone
to Major Pratt's, as requested, to carry the prescription for gout he
had asked for, and also to inquire of the Major what he meant.

But the visit was a fruitless one. Major Pratt was in bed with an attack
of gout, so ill and so "crusty" that nothing could be got out of him
excepting a few bad words and as many groans. Mr. Hamlyn then questioned
Saul--of whom he used to see a good deal in India, for he had been the
Major's servant for years and years.

"Do you happen to know, Saul, whether the Major wanted me for anything
in particular? He asked me to call here this morning."

Saul began to consider. He was a tall, thin, cautious, slow-speaking
man, honest as the day, and very much attached to his master.

"Well, sir, he got a letter yesterday morning that seemed to put him